Time ticks in my face,
Flags waved end of the race,
The damage would you like a taste?
All these things I try to cut but never paste.
I’ve been dead so many times before,
Not sure if there is tomorrow anymore,
Devils kick and beat around my doors,
My pain has become my favorite whore.
Days fly without sun,
Games played never won,
Shades of greatness but so overdone,
Alone here always even when I see I see no one.
But I’ve been dead so many times before,
So much now the whole thing does just bore,
With eyes red with past sight, my wings tore,
My misery has become my favorite chore.
–Thomas Spychalski
TomSpy 